


Carry You 'Til You Carry On

by Nerdyesque



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Gen, Meet the Family, Secret Identity, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:53:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdyesque/pseuds/Nerdyesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pilot AU: Sam Winchester gets a surprising visitor one Halloween night. Will he be pulled back into his old life for one special hunt?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can't See Heaven For All the Stars

_Palo Alto, California 2005_

Sam crouched behind the door, eyeing the shadow passing across his floor. He cursed himself for not double checking the locks after Jess went to bed. He normally waited until she was asleep then got up to safeguard the house the Winchester way, but tonight after being turned on by his sexily dressed girlfriend, his little brain had overtaken his big brain and he'd gone to sleep afterward like he was a normal who didn't have to worry about supernatural things. Had being gone that long made him go soft in the brain?

Part of him was horrified – the boy raised as a Hunter by his father and brother – while the rest of him – the boy who ran away from his life and family to strike it out on his own – applauded. It was the first time in four years he hadn't immediately thought about salting the entry points, wondered where he stashed his last vial of holy water, or worried about the silver knife on his side of the bed. Tonight was about school, drinking, and sex – two of which Dean had always urged on him.

The creaking of the floor alerted Sam to his unknown intruder's position. He was in the tiny living room adjacent to the kitchen – about three long steps from his own current position. Silently thanking Dean for his tireless efforts to teach his younger brother how to sneak up on someone, Sam flew at the stranger and tackled him, relishing the use of his full strength and slight height advantage. He was stronger, taller, and more agile than anyone else he knew, so Sam often had to play on their level instead because he wanted to fit in. Now, however, he threw his usual consideration out, striking out at the five vulnerable points of the human body: eyes, ears, temple, clavicle and solar plexus. He was deep into protective rage - his instincts demanding he keep Jess safe – so he didn't hear his name being called at first, trying to twist and grapple with his suddenly wily opponent who countered each strike.

"Sam. Sammy!"

His nickname being bellowed in his ear – something no one called him or had the right to call him – snapped him back faster than anything else could've. That, and the tone he'd recognize in his sleep.

"Dad?"

Sam pushed himself off and took a halting step backward so he could flick on the light. The shadow uncoiled itself from the floor, resolving into the familiar broad-shouldered figure of John Winchester, a hand raised to protect his eyes.

"One and only, though you did a damn fine try at patricide. 'Course, your home security was child's play to get through; if a toddler could batter through your defenses, how fast do you think a critter could?"

Oh yeah, it was his dad alright.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

John lowered his hand and looked at his youngest son with tired dark eyes. The craggy face was still handsome, the near black hair still un-greyed, but there was something about him that screamed old to Sam, and it shook him. His father was the unshakeable Rock of Gibraltar in which the boys' world revolved around; to see something indefinable and broken in him now was scary, though Sam didn't utter his thoughts aloud. He was angry, not stupid.

"That still doesn't answer my question: What. The. Hell. Are. You. Doing. Here?

"Honey, what's going on?"

Both Winchesters turned to the bedroom doorway as Jess appeared, her white night-gown innocently provocative as it lay against her slim body. She pushed pillow-flattened blond hair from her eyes and blinked sleepily at the both of them.

"Jess, go back to bed. I'll be in there in a minute."

"Why hello, I'm John Winchester."

John and Sam spoke at the same time, brown eyes clashing with hazel ones as each man tried to glare the other into submission. It was rare for Sam to see his father being charming, but he'd recognize the smirk he bestowed on Jess anywhere: it was one of the few things Dean had inherited from John (everything else was Mary Winchester, or so the pictures and Dad's drunken ramblings proclaimed).

Jess pointedly ignored her boyfriend and stepped further into the small living room, blue eyes switching back and forth between the two men. It was clear the older man was related to Sam, their body shape, hair, facial structure, and identical scowls screamed such a connection. In the two years they'd dated, she'd never gotten him to speak much about his past, other than a few cryptic references to an absentee dad.

"John Winchester as in Sam's…?"

"Father," he helpfully supplied to her less than subtle question. While most normal family members might be miffed by her lack of knowledge, John approved his son's tight-lipped mentality with his girlfriend. It was safer for everyone if she wasn't aware of his past, but in this case there was no avoiding the truth.

"He was just leaving."

"But he just got here!"

Jess didn't want to lose the opportunity to learn more about Sam – whereas most guys their age couldn't shut up about their pasts, Sam was annoyingly and cleverly reticent about his, somehow always managing to weasel out of conversations. He knew everything about her and pretty much the only thing she knew about him was the fact he moved around a lot as a kid, which is why he knew some of the most obscure facts about nearly every state in the U.S. She had quickly learned not to pry, but the curiosity never left.

John could read the pretty blond like one of his son's textbooks: her eagerness to know more about Sam and the unthinking normality of her existence. She was exactly the kind of girl he would expect his youngest boy to date and eventually marry, if only to prove he could. Inwardly he sighed because this wasn't going to end pretty, no matter what Sam decided. He'd scouted his son's activities for a week before approaching him and he didn't know which disturbed him more: Sam's lack of situational awareness or him celebrating Halloween like he didn't know what it actually represented.

"Dad, why are you here?"

"Son, maybe we should step outside and talk about this."

John groaned mentally when Sam – contrary to the end – stepped towards Jess and tucked her into his side with a challenging look.

"Whatever you need to say, you can say in front of both of us."

"Dean's missing."

The words speared through Sam with bruising force. Of the many regrets he had, Dean was one of the biggest. When Sam had broken the news of his full scholarship to Stanford, Dad had raged and blustered, vowing he wouldn't let a son of his venture off on his lonesome, but Dean had remained mute, barely looking at his brother. It was a cold three weeks until he finally left for California, Dean dropping him off at the bus stop with a gruff "be seeing you kid," before peeling out of the parking lot. The phone calls and e-mail were sporadic until two years ago – right around the time he started dating Jess – they stopped completely.

"Jess, we're going to step outside for a minute. Be right back."

Sam didn't breathe until they were huddled downstairs near the apartment parking lot.

"What do you mean _missing?_ "

"He hasn't been answering my calls or texts and the last time anyone saw him was months ago."

"Months? Exactly how long has he been gone?"

"Well, we split up a year ago –"

"A freaking year, Dad? He's been gone a _year_?"

John growled low in his throat. He didn't appreciate the searing look of disdain his youngest was throwing him as it only reinforced his own recriminations.

"It's not like that, Sam. Right after you left for California, he started running his own hunts. About two years ago, he dropped off the map for about a month and when he came back, he was _different._ "

He wished he had the words to describe the difference in Dean so Sam would understand. John had known how hard his oldest took Sam's leaving – as if the heart of him was gone – but then he'd started filling the hole with hunting and things began to perk up as if he'd finally shaken the melancholy over losing his little brother. Then they'd gotten into one of their legendary no holds bar fights and Dean had gone storming off. John hadn't worried too much about him until a few weeks went by without any contact. Dean and he sometimes went solo, but always kept the other apprised of what was going on. By the time he passed anger and headed into unadulterated fear territory, Dean turned up, bruised and broken, but uncommunicative. More so than usual.

Talking about their feelings wasn't the Winchester way, so John had left his son alone to work out whatever demons – no pun intended – he had until Dean went back to being himself again. It was a mockery of the snarky charming son he reared and loved, but it was something.

Then last spring Dean had gotten a phone call that completely changed him. John never got the details, but whatever it was, it sent his son out into the cold with the only parting words of "I'll be in touch old man," before he sped away in the Impala. He'd always expected Sam to leave – had seen it in the temper tantrums and fights over the years – but he'd figured his perfect soldier son would always be at his side, until he wasn't.

"We'd meet up at prearranged spots to work together, but when the job was over, he'd be gone again. Yet, even when we weren't together, I'd still hear from him or get a text." John shook his head wearily, standing with his hands on his jean-clad hips. "Six weeks have gone by with only one voicemail."

He dug out the small silver cell phone from his back pocket and held it out to his other son, hoping he might be able to glean something. Sam and Dean always had a connection that defied explanation, as far back as he could remember, and was now counting on.

Sam held the phone to his ear and listened to the disembodied voice of his missing brother:

 _Dad, it's me. Uh, things are crazy right now and I don't think I can help you with the witches. You know how much I hate witches_ [pause with an uncomfortable chuckle]. _I, uh, have things here to take care of and, uh, I'll be in touch when I'm able. If you don't hear from me, don't worry I'm fine. I'm a Winchester and we're always fine, right?_ [background noise intrudes and kids yelling muffle Dean's voice] _…so catch ya later._ [click]

Sam stared at the device in his hand with frustration. He was thrilled to hear Dean's voice – craved it in fact – but angry it was the first time in years he'd heard it.

"Have you tried calling him back?"

John didn't bother dignifying that with a response. Sam snorted then moved on. It was a stupid question anyway because if Dean couldn't be raised by phone – especially to their father's call – then he'd ditched the burner for a new one.

"What did you two fight about?"

"What?"

"You said two years ago, he dropped off the map for about a month. The only way he'd leave you is if you two fought. What was it about?"

John grimaced ashamedly. He didn't like to think of the fight that almost had them coming to blows.

"It's not important –"

"There's no such thing as an unimportant detail, Dad. You always told us that – especially when starting a hunt. Dean started acting weird about two years ago and there's a reason for it." Sam handed back the phone then cleared his throat awkwardly. "He stopped talking to me about then too."

Shock lined John's weathered face. He'd always assumed Dean had kept in contact with his little brother because there was no one – John included – who he loved more. It was also one more reason why he came to ask for Sam's help. He'd assumed Dean would've told Sam what was going on.

"We, ah, acquired the services of another hunter during the course of a job we were on. The hunter ended up getting ripped apart and Dean took it hard because the guy had a wife and kid waiting for him back home. He'd promised the little girl he'd bring her daddy back safe and sound."

"And he hates breaking promises he makes, especially to kids," Sam murmured.

John nodded.

"Who was the hunter?"

"Bill Harvelle."

"But why would you fight about that, especially for a hunt gone wrong? It sucks, but it happens from time to time." Sam's eyes narrowed in thought, his hand pushing through his hair. He knew Dean and understood his older brother's thought processes – Dad was right, even when he was wrong, or so it had always seemed. But to hear his brother had actually left his father in anger could only lead him to one conclusion: "You got him killed, didn't ya? Dean disagreed with your plan for whatever the job was and reamed you when it went wrong."

Anger and shame vied for supremacy as John fought to control his reaction to his son's insightful comments. He'd gone with his gut instinct – something that made him a great hunter – and he'd miscalculated their prey's cunning because he jumped out a moment before the trap was sprung, alerting the demon to his presence. In horror, he watched as the demon chomped down on Bill who was acting as bait, his screams of "No!" as he raced to pry it off his friend. Dean – who was on the other side to make sure the demon didn't have reinforcements – had seen the entire fight from beginning to end and stormed over there to back his father up.

John had started dragging the demon into the drawn Devil's Trap, barely aware of Dean trying to keep Bill's guts from falling through the gaping hole in his abdomen. He'd tortured the demon as he'd never done before – always trying to keep the host body in somewhat decent shape just in case he or she could survive the possession – but this time he didn't care. He needed to avenge his friend's death – he knew even before Dean got there that Bill wouldn't make it – and get information on the demon who'd taken Mary away from them. The demon had merely laughed in his face, telling John he shouldn't bother because Old Yellow Eyes was coming for him.

It was the first time he'd received confirmation there was a grand scheme in place – for whatever demonic reason – and a name. Well, more of a nickname, but something tangible for him to grasp. Dean, on the other hand, had been more upset about Bill's death than delighted there was proof the end was near for his mother's killer.

"It should've worked. I had the best intel, we went over and over the plan…and it just…failed."

Sam wavered between shock at his father's uncharacteristic sharing and worry for his brother's state of mind. He knew how much Dean adored John and knew it must've been bad for him to up and leave without a word. It helped him understand what changed two years ago, but Dean was forgiving and never held a grudge for too long, so what had sent him off the grid now?

"What was the last conversation you guys had about?"

"Your mother."

The softly spoken words fell into the silence that sprung up between the two. Though Sam hadn't ever met Mary – being too young when she died to remember her – he'd been raised to honor her memory by Dean. John was a distant taciturn man who's obsessive drive to find his wife's killer had taken him away more often than not from his boys, so Dean weaned Sam on tales of their mother until she approached a goddess-like stature in young Sam's mind. Even now, years and maturity later, Sam still felt a certain reverence for her he couldn't shake.

"Was he angry? Upset? What?"

John shrugged, the sheepskin lined jean jacket settling against his shoulders. "He asked me how I knew I loved Mary."

The two Winchesters exchanged baffled glances as this wasn't a topic the missing Winchester normally broached. He was a lady-killer with a gold-plated smile and a con man's tongue who was able to finagle his way into almost any woman's bed he set his sights on. There was never any indication he nurtured anything deeper than "helllloooo nurse" thoughts towards the opposite sex. Not to say Dean didn't genuinely appreciate females, but he held them at the same distance he held everyone else who's last name wasn't the same as his.

"Do you think –"

"Dean? Nah."

They both instantly dismissed any idea of Dean having romantic feelings for someone because it was inconceivable.

"Sam? Are you going to be outside all night?"

Both men looked up towards the top of the stairs where a shivering Jess stood, her arms crossed to hide her unbound breasts. She'd been patiently waiting for the last half hour for them to return, but got worried when no one came through the door again. There'd always been a fear in the back of her mind of Sam just taking off – it was silly as many of her girlfriends assured her – because he seemed so rootless. Even his upcoming interview for law school didn't seem much of a tie, as she could somehow imagine him shucking it – and her – without a backwards glance. Her imagination had gotten the better of her because she wondered if the appearance of his father would somehow pull him back to the mysterious past he never spoke about to anyone.

"Uh, no. Go back inside, babe. I'll be up in a minute."

"Why not just finish your conversation up here? Your dad could stay on the couch…" her tone was unintentionally pleading, as she really did want to get to know John more, hungry for any scrap of information.

Sam's eyebrows drew together into a scowl she couldn't see. It was his worst nightmare come to life: his past and his present colliding into an epic big bang of disaster. He hadn't understood just how far he'd run from being a Winchester and all the responsibilities it entailed until he saw his father standing in his apartment. He knew as surely as he knew his name that the reason John had come wasn't just to inform him about Dean's absence, but also to pull him back into the hunt.

Had it been for any other reason, Sam could've said no with a clear conscience, but this was for Dean. The big brother who'd nursed him through countless sicknesses, kept him fed and loved, who'd released him to the wider world. It had taken awhile for him to realize it, but eventually it dawned on him the reason Dean hadn't tried to stop him from going to Stanford was because his brother had understood the soul-deep weariness he felt in living their life. He wanted – no, needed - stability and normality in a way the other two didn't; Sam would've stayed if Dean had asked him to, or given any indication he wanted him to, but he hadn't and Sam didn't.

"Jess, please."

"Fine!"

Both winced when the front door slammed.

"Damn, son, you'll be paying for that one."

"Gee, I can't think why." John just laughed at Sam's bitchface (as Dean named it the first time it made its appearance at the tender age of nine).

"You want my advice?"

"About women from you? I think I'll pass." Sam sighed and threaded his fingers through his thick brown hair and slightly tugged on it. "Why haven't you just come out and asked?"

"Asked what?"

"Dad, don't. Just don't. We both know you came here for my help because you want me to go with you."

"Sammy-"

"It's Sam," he interrupted.

"Sam," John huffed then continued, "I tried doing this on my own and couldn't get anywhere." The words burned as he admitted failure. It wasn't often he felt the sting of defeat, but it wasn't surprising it was at the hands of family; if anything, Mary's murderer getting away scott free had taught him that particularly bitter lesson. "I need your help."

"Do you know his last known job?"

"No, but I know someone who might."

Sam cocked a brow at John's tone as he couldn't quite decipher the emotions running through his father; the angle of the light didn't allow him to see his face either, so he was left with only guesses. But if he didn't know any better, he'd think Dad was…jealous.

"Okay you make that phone call while I try to make my girlfriend understand why I'm leaving."

"Good luck."

"Yeah, I'm gonna need it."

John grinned as he watched his son march up the stairs much like a condemned prisoner would face the firing squad. It wasn't surprising really that Sam would drop everything for his brother – despite him leaving the family business for a new life, he was still Dean's baby brother and that connection was unshakeable, nigh unbreakable even.

_Okay, enough stalling Winchester. Just do it._

Shaky fingers dialed a number he still knew by heart despite the years since he'd called it. He almost hit end when he heard the phone ring, but his need to know Dean's whereabouts was more pressing so he pulled up his big boy pants and held on.

"Yeah?"

"Bobby, it's me...John."

Sam paused on the stairs when he heard his father say "Bobby" – the falling out between the two men was legendary in the gossip and rumor fueled world of the Hunters, and something everyone speculated about but no one had the actual reason as to why. Sam and Dean had their own ideas (they intimately knew John's ability to piss people off after all), but nothing they'd ever tried to verify with their father; instead, as always, they followed Dad's lead and didn't have anything to do with the old man again, though Sam knew Dean had had a special fondness for him. Astonishment arched his brows as he wondered what else he'd missed in the four years away from his family if John was calling Bobby for Dean's whereabouts.

As much as he wanted to continue eavesdropping, he had his own difficult conversation to start. With that in mind, he opened the door, unprepared for Jess standing right inside with an angry expression. The doorknob slipped from his suddenly sweaty grasp and the door slammed shut behind him.

"You're leaving aren't you?"

"What?"

"You're going off with your dad and blowing off your interview on Monday."

Sam started a little at her reminder of what was coming up in three days. In the emotional whirlwind of being with his dad and hearing about Dean, he'd completely forgotten what was going on for him in this life, despite spending most of the evening celebrating that very news. He'd done very well on his LSATs and was actually scouted by the Stanford Law Professor to do his degree here; it should've been his dream come true, and until an hour ago, it was.

"I'm not –"

"Don't bother lying to me, Sam. It's beneath you." She shook her head, tears filling her eyes. "I've been expecting this day for months – no years. Ever since the first time we slept together and you looked so devastated."

"It wasn't like that –" ironically echoing his father's words to him "- I was just overwhelmed." Sam bent his head a little. "It was my first time."

Jess' mouth opened and closed as she fought to find words. She hadn't even known Sam was a virgin that night, though she'd known he wasn't experienced. "That's kind of something you tell a girl, especially one you profess to love."

Sam nodded once, his mind traveling back to that night and the emotions filling him when he realized the one person he wanted to tell wasn't there. He wouldn't have bragged about cashing his v-card in like Dean did when he was fourteen – Sam still shuddered at the memory – but he had wanted to share the milestone with his big brother who'd been there for all the others.

"I didn't want to seem like a freak to you."

"Being a guy's first, being the girl who he compares all other lovers to, is not freakish. It's a compliment."

Sam blushed a little and ducked his head again.

"But that's beside the point. Stop trying to side track me! You're leaving with your dad for this Dean guy, aren't you?"

"He's my brother, of course I'm going."

"You have a brother and you didn't even tell me! Where's your mom? Do you have a sister you've hidden away?"

Each word got progressive louder as Jess stepped into his personal bubble and backed him up into the door. Sam was used to towering over everyone and downplaying his strengths, so he automatically allowed her to move him; there were only two people in the world he could feel comfortable about his body with and she wasn't one of them. In fact, her own seeming delicateness was actually one of the things that attracted him to her – she would allow him to protect her without demur, let him baby her in recompense for opening her heart and her life to him. She was the opposite of Dean in terms of physicality and she didn't protest his signs of affection – something his brother had done once Sam was out of childhood. He'd often wondered what it was about being a Winchester that automatically made love synonymous with horror. Then he mentally slapped himself when he remembered Mary.

"You're not listening to a word I'm saying!"

Sam clued into Jess' rant and handily proved he was paying attention – his mind was facile enough to devote time to his own personal thoughts while also superficially cataloguing his surroundings. It was what made him a damn fine Hunter.

"Okay," she harrumphed, chagrined she couldn't lay more blame on Sam. Jess knew he was going to go regardless of what she was saying, but she still tried to find a way to make him stay. It didn't matter if he said he'd be back, she knew, _knew_ , in her heart of hearts, if he walked out that door, he wasn't coming back to her, at least in any meaningful way.

"Baby, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Dean or my dad. It's hard to talk about my childhood; I wasn't abused or anything, just we were raised differently. After Mom died, Dad couldn't stand to stay in one place because of her memory, so he dragged us all over the States, always saying just one more job then everything will change. Dean was all I had."

Sam was unaware of the bitterness in his voice, his hazel blue eyes filled with dark emotions. Jess was a little taken aback by his words. She'd constructed many scenarios in her head over the years, but never guessed a dead mother and an obsessive father.

"So you're close to Dean?"

"He was the best big brother any kid could ask for. I remember once when I was really little and we were in this mall during the Christmas season. We passed a line for Santa Claus and Dean asked if I wanted to sit on Santa's lap to ask for a gift; I told him I didn't need anything more since I had him."

Sam still remembered the look of surprise and gratitude on Dean's face at his words. He knew now it was because it was probably the first time anyone had either said or implied they loved him in a very long time. Dean had once told him how different John was before the fire, but Sam couldn't see it. It boggled his mind to think their dad was loving and affectionate, had a hearty laugh, and smiled more than he frowned. He secretly thought Dean had created that father in his mind because he couldn't bear to deal with the reality of the one they had – he was only four when everything happened so how reliable could his memories be?

"What happened to him, your brother?"

"I dunno, but Dad has a pretty good idea of where we can track him down." Or so Sam hoped.

"But why do you have to go? I mean, I get you love your brother, but you haven't seen or talked to him in four years. Why do you care now?"

Sam slipped out from the small cage Jess created and flopped on their couch. Her words were daggers of truth slicing his heart out from his chest. Why did he let his brother stop communicating by phone and then e-mail? He knew better than anyone that when Dean went silent, it was a sign of his emotional upheaval. Because it was easier – he didn't have to be torn between the two greatest loves of his life (school and Dean). He wanted his cake and eat it too, and when it proved too hard, he buried his brother in a lock box in his mind, content to let him stay there.

"I still talked to him, even met up with him for lunch, but that was in the beginning when I first got here. We talked by phone, then e-mail, then we just stopped."

Jess moved in front of him, her hands twisting around each other as she fought the urge to reach out to him. There was an unapproachable air about him she'd never encountered before from Sam; he was the most touch-hungry person she'd ever met and was happiest when he was curled around her in bed. Now, however, her Sam was gone and this stranger was in his place.

"It's like I don't even know you."

"You do. You know this Sam."

" _This_ Sam? What does that even mean?"

It meant she knew the Sam he constructed, built painstakingly out of bits of truth and mostly fantasy, the boy he wished he could be and the man he was trying to become; but like the house of cards Dean used to construct when he was bored, it only took the smallest tremor to shake the foundations and bring it down.

"You wouldn't have liked me if you knew me before Stanford. I was, uh, very different."

His father had not only raised Hunters, but slick conmen, sometimes wheel men, and backup. It was after a particularly brutal poltergeist fight – where they'd conned their way into the job by posing as electricians – that Sam realized this would be his life for the next several decades if he didn't do something to pull himself out. He wanted a job that didn't require him lying about every aspect of his existence.

"Dad needs me. I wish you could understand what that means, but trust me when I say, I'm the last person in the world my father would normally admit to needing. But I know Dean better than anyone else, so I can think like him, know where he might go and why. "

John had often called them cosmic twins because of their ability to communicate wordlessly, tap into each other's consciousness and just know information about each other that defied description. It might seem spooky to anyone else, but to him it was just how he and Dean operated. And it was that closeness, that twinness, he'd missed more than anything in the four years he was gone, though he'd learned to live without it.

"Will you come home after you find him?

Sam's first instinct was to protest her use of the word "home." Growing up, he'd always tried to imagine what living in the same house, the same town, would be like and wanted it more than anything else in the world. Too bad it occurred to him too late he did have a home, just not a conventional one. Dean and the Impala were his home, always had been, always would be, no matter how far or fast he ran.

"If there's nothing seriously wrong with Dean, than yeah, I'll be back."

There was the qualification she was looking for and one she didn't think Sam even realized he gave.

"What about law school?"

Fire was an essential tool in the Hunter's bag of tricks; it's why no true Hunter went without a lighter, matches, and lighter fluid packed somewhere in his or her gear. Even the Winchesters – who had more cause than most to hate the flames – were old hands with different tricks for setting things on fire. Sam knew one word could start the conflagration of his present life, leaving him with ashes, but found he just couldn't care, not with Dean in possible trouble.

"Dean's more important."

Both Sam and Jess felt the impact of those three little words: for Sam, it was letting go of the guilt, anger, homesickness, and depression that had bound him to the past and kept him from moving on in the present. He'd run from his responsibilities as a Winchester instead of trying to face it squarely. This might be his only chance to right the wrongs he'd dealt his family and see if this new life was truly something he wanted because he wanted it not because it was the opposite of what he'd had; but this time fairly and honestly, instead of sneaking out like a thief. To Jess, however, they resounded in her heart with finality, as if proving the echo of something else she'd always heard behind Sam's every word to her was worse than she'd imagined. It seemed ironic – and purely Sam Winchester – for him to leave her, not for another girl, but for a man who seemed more myth than fact.

"I see."

And she did. The minute he spoke those three little words, purpose had filled him; the lost boy she sometimes saw in his face was gone as if he'd never existed. And maybe he didn't. Maybe he was fabricated from her desire to be needed by him, to be needed by someone so terrifyingly self-sufficient, she was still shocked they were dating and living together. No young man knew how to cook, clean, or do laundry. It just wasn't normal.

The polite knock on the door reminded them they weren't alone and Sam opened it to his father. The men locked eyes, nodded, and then John walked back down the stairs. Though not a word passed their lips, Jess felt as if she'd witnessed a calm exchange of information, planning, and execution; if this was how he'd lived as a child, no wonder he was such a solemn and quiet man now.

"Jess-"

"He's not spending the night, is he? You guys are leaving now."

"Yeah," Sam responded absently, already moving towards the small closet near the door. Even though he didn't participate on Hunts any longer, he'd always made sure to keep a bag packed filled with the usual salt, silver, guns, and ammo, as well as spare clothing. Of course, the clothes he'd kept in there from four years ago no longer fit since he was quite a bit bigger now – the consequences of a healthy diet, exercise, and daily meals – so he'd have to take those out and pack newer stuff.

Jess watched his methodical packing, each item quickly and efficiently stowed away in a black canvas bag she'd never seen. Shock filled her when Sam withdrew a large knife from under his side of their bed and threw it in the open pack. He turned to her at the last, his normally open gaze veiled from her, as if he'd already distanced himself from her, their life.

"You have my phone number so if you need to reach me."

 _But don't call just to chat_ went unspoken, at least to Jess' tender ears.

Sam pressed a heartfelt kiss to her lips, relishing the scent of her for a moment, and then gently disengaged himself from her grasp.

"I will come back, Jess. I promise."

"I love you," her words stark and unvarnished, fear and worry and affection bound up in those three words. Sam's eyes returned to hers, hazel eyes soft and clear as she knew them.

"I love you too, baby."

Then with little ceremony, he hoisted his bag over his shoulder and walked out of Jessica Moore's life for perhaps the last time.

John looked up as he heard Sam come thundering down the steps, joining him at the curb. His son took in the gleaming black of the truck he now drove and whistled in appreciation.

"Hafta hand it to you, Dad, you know vehicles."

John smiled proudly – unintentionally reminding Sam of Dean's possessive love for the Impala – and took his son's bag to throw it in the back.

"Yeah, she's a beaut. Remind me sometime to tell you the story of how I got her."

Sam swung into the cab and settled in, unsurprised when his dad turned on the engine and classic rock poured out of the speakers.

"AC/DC Dad? Haven't changed a bit."

John caught Sam's hand before he could touch the volume knob.

"What was Dean's rule in the Impala?"

Sam groaned but intoned with his dad "Driver picks the music and shot gun shuts his pie-hole."

"I knew I raised that boy right," John joked as he peeled out of the parking lot.

A few miles down the road, Sam finally broke the silence and asked the most pressing question.

"Where we going?"

John's gaze never wavered from the road, though his hands did tighten on the steering wheel. "Jericho. According to my source, he was on the trail of a Woman in White."

"Huh." Sam fidgeted for a moment. "Did he often do jobs in California?"

His father heard the real question: _Did he still care about me even after he cut off contact?_

"Every chance he got, son. Every chance he got."

Sam smiled a little then leaned his head against the window, staring out into the darkness as it rippled by. Though this wasn't the Impala and it wasn't Dean seated beside him, he felt comfort and rightness settling into his gut. He didn't know how long or how many miles it would take to get to Dean, but it was the first step in the right direction.

"Wake me when we get there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was something that just came to me – it's a blending of AU and canon. In my version of the pilot, it's not Dean who seeks out Sam and tears him away from Stanford. I also use other characters and case details with a twist just because I can and it amuses me. 
> 
> Episodes: Though nominally the pilot, it also mixes up information we learn later in the season(s).
> 
> Title: I got the idea from the lyrics to "Count On Me" by Default (I suck at creating titles).
> 
> Inspiration: "Heaven" and "Changes" by 3 Doors Down (listen to the songs and tell me they don't sound like something Sam or Dean would think)


	2. Living In Between the Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is still missing and Sam is knee-deep in the "family business" with his father.

Bobby Singer of Singer Salvage Yard was known as the town drunk by the kind and the town lunatic by those less charitably inclined. Either appellation didn't make a lick of difference to him because he rarely ventured into town unless he needed supplies he couldn't get online. The advent of the internet was the best thing since some enterprising hunter decided to write down the tricks of the trade centuries ago and left it to his descendents. Bobby, on his best day, was a cantankerous coot with the temperament of a rabid beaver; today wasn't his best day and probably not the time for John Winchester to roll into his yard in the large rumbling behemoth he liked to call a truck just as the sun was setting.

He wasn't surprised, however, by the visit. The oldest Winchester was on the hunt for his boy and was even willing to pester _him_ for information on Dean despite the very acrid falling out the two hunters had years ago. Ironically - especially given the reason for John showing up – it was over his sons.

Just as he stepped to the porch with a loaded shot gun pointed down, the passenger door opened and out slid Sam Winchester, or so he surmised since the hair and the puppy-dog eyes were the same even if they were currently situated on a body the size of Big Foot. He could see Dean hadn't been exaggerating the growth spurt his baby brother had gone through in the years since he'd seen them.

"Bobby, great to see ya."

The man in question wavered uncertainly – though none of this turmoil showed up on his face – but then he put the shotgun down and held out a hand.

"Sam."

Bobby was unprepared for the hug he was pulled into against a chest bulging with muscles, as were the wiry arms wrapped around him. He thought about struggling free but knew the chances of that happening were as likely as a mule singing opera, so he endured the embrace.

"Damn hippies and their flower power love. Lemme go, Sasquatch."

And it was upon that word – that nickname only one other person had ever used – that induced Sam to release Bobby. Dean was fanatically close-mouthed about his family to almost everyone, so it was a measure of his trust in Bobby to use that term of endearment (or annoyance depending on Sam's mood) when speaking about his brother

"When was the last time you spoke to Dean?"

The urgency of Sam's tone wasn't lost on Bobby even as he inwardly cursed his wayward tongue. He hadn't intended to let slip he spoke to Dean recently – well _recently_ was relative to a hunter since it could be years between calls or visits.

"Same as I told your daddy – two months or so ago. He called askin' for info on vanishing hitchhikers because he said he caught wind of a case up in Jericho where boys went missin' every ten years or so."

Sam nodded impatiently. "Yeah, we took that case on. He was right it was a Woman in white. But have you seen or talked to him since?"

Bobby's stomach tightened with dread as he took in the exhaustion and fear painted across the youngest Winchester's face. He'd treated John's enquires with disdain because he didn't much like the man for the pain he put Dean through, but he never actually thought Dean would fall off the face of the earth either.

He remembered back to Halloween when John first contacted him after a decade of silence:

"Balls, I owe that boy a fifty."

Bobby cursed because he'd taken a sucker's bet when Dean predicted his dad would call asking him for information. He'd been confident that John wouldn't dare, not the way things had ended between them, but he should've known better than to bet against a Winchester. It would bite 'cha in the butt every time.

The words were low but John's hearing was keen enough to hear it; he could only mean one boy.

"What job is he working?"

"Now, why you think I would know that?"

"Cause you're the only one Dean trusts who isn't family."

Anger burst through Bobby so fast he felt a little light-headed and sat down at the scarred dinner table in his kitchen. He'd been surprised as hell when Dean had showed up on his doorstep a few years ago – four to be exact – with a case of beer, a bag of nuts, and a ravaged expression akin to an animal caught in a trap. He'd never had any beef with the Winchester sons, so he'd allowed him in and bullied the pain out of him – the love between the brothers was something rare and special, a privilege to see, so it had surprised him greatly for Sammy to haul ass and leave his brother in the lurch.

Dean had, predictably, defended Sam saying this was no life for his genius IQ baby brother, but it didn't dull the sting of being left behind. He hadn't said it, but Bobby knew _again_ was echoing in the stillness of his heart. His mother's death, his father's revenge, and finally Sam's flight had one consequence: made Dean feel unwanted and alone.

After that weekend of bonding, Bobby and Dean kept in touch and two years ago, it was to Bobby that he ran when things went south between him and John. After that, any time he was in the area, he would stop by, and if he wasn't, he'd check in every so often, so it wasn't surprising when Dean had rung him, asking the veteran hunter for research help. What did surprise Bobby was getting a call from John Winchester a little while later saying he hadn't heard from his oldest boy in six weeks.

But even more importantly, however, the phone call had given him a chance to say the words he'd held in for better part of fourteen years.

"You know, I wish I'd a shot your ass with the shotgun when I had the chance. You're a piss poor excuse for a daddy and yet the Good Lord saw fit to bless you with two good boys you nearly killed in your quest for vengeance. How'd that work out for ya, Johnny? One up and left ya high and dry the minute he turned eighteen and the other half dug hisself a grave trying to be the perfect soldier boy."

There was such a feeling of release, Bobby felt lighter for having said his piece, but he knew John Winchester wouldn't take the insults lying down. And he hadn't.

"You aren't a father or ever been one, so don't pretend you know how it's done. Keeping them alive and healthy is the point of being a parent and I did my job!"

"They were too young! You shoulda let them grow up normal and happy instead of dragging them all over the God durned earth just to prove some asinine theory to yourself. We all are sorry Mary's gone but that ain't no reason to hold them boys hostage to your quest. Dean don't remember his mama too good anymore and Sam ain't never had the chance to even know her, so who's sake are you really doing this for?"

The words hit John in the middle of his father's heart, exposing every fear he'd ever harbored yet buried since the ends justified the means; it was his mantra and his code to live by because it was the only way that made sense. Despite the provocation, however, Dean was more important than settling old scores, so he got the conversation back on track.

"Have you talked to Dean or not?"

"What if I have, whatcha gonna do about it?"

"Bobby, I know we've had our differences, but I'm tryin' to find my son. He's been incommunicado for six weeks now. Please."

It was the "please" that broke Bobby's determination because it was the first time he'd ever heard John Winchester use the word.

"Last I heard, he was up in Jericho workin' a case; could be a woman in white, or it could just be something humanly sinister instead of supernatural. You'll have to figure it out once you catch up with him."

And until now, seeing the remaining Winchesters in his driveway, Bobby had sincerely believed Dean was fine and in regular contact with the others. That boy was the most family-oriented person he'd ever met, putting their needs and pleasures before his every single damn time.

"No, Sam I haven't." Bobby shook his head sadly. "He ain't been in contact since then."

Sam's face screwed up tight as if he were fighting off some powerful emotion, then completely shuttered when John finally stepped from the truck and walked over to the porch, his hands causally lying empty against his sides as if to show he wasn't armed. Now that was a lie because Bobby knew the man usually had at least a knife and a gun holstered on him somewhere, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. It was a subtle but important gesture between hunters who weren't sure of their welcome but had no intention of starting a fight.

"Winchester."

"Singer."

Sam huffed and rolled his eyes, the tightness in his throat dissipating at the stilted way the two men greeted one another. He hadn't realized just how much he'd relied on seeing Bobby, thinking the older hunter would have all the answers like he generally did for the myriad of hunters who relied on him for supernatural theories and answers. But Dean wasn't some job or hunt, just his brother who was in the wind for some reason only known to him.

"Are you two ladies done now or are you still figuring out who's gonna lead and who's gonna follow in this dance of yours?"

Two sets of startled eyes swung towards the youngest Winchester because he'd channeled his older brother's sassy tone to perfection, and it was downright startling to see Sam instead of Dean standing there with an exasperated expression on his face. Both men backed away from the edge of the confrontation simmering between them and nodded.

"Good. Now Bobby, I can smell your chili from here, so maybe the three of us should go into the house, sit down and have a meal like civilized people and figure out what's going on in my brother's crazy head."

After one of the quietest meals he'd ever had with the Winchesters, Bobby cleared away the bowls, trying to decipher the glances he saw passing between them.

"Okay you idgits, out with it. What bee is in your bonnet now?"

Sam grinned at the familiar insult, briefly taken back to the more uncomplicated days of his youth when he and Dean were frequent guests whenever their dad couldn't take them on more dangerous hunts, back before everything imploded beneath the weight of the world. His lips twisted downward at the reminder, turning his face away for a moment so the others couldn't see the fleeting sorrow. Sam shook himself free and returned his attention to Bobby.

"I've been wracking my brain since Jericho as to what would set Dean off from a hunt half-finished –"

"He didn't kill the ghost?"

Sam shook his head. "He'd dug into the research and had it mapped out, even had narrowed it down to the right dead woman, but then just took off."

When they'd found his room – more due to Jericho being a small town with only one motel than any true detective work – it had shocked Sam to see the methodical and intricate cross referencing of different sources tacked to the wall. John hadn't had the same reaction, just taking it for granted, as if it was something Dean did all the time; this didn't jive with his own memories of being forced to do all the research and being subjected to his brother's whines about "geeking out" whenever he wrote things down or dragged Dean to a library.

When he mentioned it to John, the older man had merely shrugged and said, "Who did you think helped with my research? Who taught you to read and write?" He'd never thought his brother was stupid – definitely not by any means – but he wasn't exactly the poster child for scholarly research. Dean seemed more at home behind the wheel of the Impala or flirting with the waitresses bringing him pie.

"How come I always got stuck doing the legwork then?"

John smiled gently, his hands cupped around his youngest son's shoulders. "When you were seven and found out that monsters were real, you couldn't sleep for a week because you were so worried; not that they'd get you, but they'd get me. Dean figured the only time you were happy was when you were reading, so he started giving you things to look up. He said that knowledge was the best defense for you, and sure enough, you stopped freaking out whenever I was going out for a hunt because you had facts and figures, a scientific explanation so to speak, for what I was after."

That revelation shook Sam, made him reevaluate what he knew, or thought he knew, about Dean. The lines between them were drawn in black and white – Dean was the charming and charismatic one, the grifter with the golden tongue who could draw anyone into his story and make it seem plausible, while Sammy was the quiet one with the fast brain who processed knowledge faster than anyone else except Bobby, and was more machine like in his efficiency. It always made him feel important and useful to the Winchester Three, being their "geek boy."

"Sides," John continued, unaware of Sam's reaction, "Dean really hated to research. Said it gave him the hives to go among books; he never did like the smell of old paper. Odd boy, really." And suddenly Sam could hear his brother saying that in his patented snarky tone, see the half-smirk, the little wrinkles at the corners of his expressive green eyes, and he missed Dean so badly in that moment he wanted to bawl like he was three years old again and had just lost his favorite stuffed toy.

"Didja find his phone?"

Bobby's voice broke through the memory and anchored Sam to the here and now, away from the mildewed room filled with Dean's things, but no Dean.

"No, though we did find his favorite jacket and his hunting journal." It was something Sam planned on teasing his brother about once they were reunited. He'd never taken Dean as the "Dear Diary" type, but flipping through it, the pages were less devoted to the monsters he was hunting and more about his perceptions of the cases he worked. It was illuminating and satisfying in some way to read words his brother had written, trace his fingers over the pen strokes as if it would lead him to the right clue that would solve the Case of the Missing Winchester.

"So he's definitely with his Impala, right?"

Both Winchester men snorted in derision, unable to believe Bobby would really ask that. Dean leaving his "baby" somewhere was as inconceivable as Bobby going without his grungy trucker's cap.

"Did you activate his lo-jack?"

John's eyes widened and he fought the urge to slap himself upside the head at the imminently reasonable question – things he should've done ages ago when he first started looking for Dean, instead of running around like a newly beheaded chicken.

Sam, he was smug enough to note, had the same chagrined expression on his face too, as Bobby's suggestion obviously hadn't occurred to him either. It wasn't often they could go through legitimate and legal channels to get things done, but the Impala was registered in Dean's real name; and fortunately for them his rap sheet wasn't.

"I'll take it by your gawping faces, you didn't even think of it. Christ, you two wouldn't be able to find your buttholes without a map and a digger's tool." Bobby shoved away from the counter he leaned against and stalked over to the bulging rolodex on his desk across the room. He slowly flipped through the cards, muttering under his breath, before snatching one triumphantly and writing its information down on a separate piece of paper.

He spun and stomped back to them, throwing the lined note on the table. "Sheriff Jody Mills owes me a favor and she might be persuaded to help you buffoons, but she won't be in until mornin', so you might as well bunk here."

Sam knew what a concession it was to have the Winchesters beneath his roof again – especially since the last thing Bobby ever yelled at them years before was "and keep your cursed behind away from me!" – so he shooed him away from the dishes and quickly did them to show his appreciation. John and Bobby circled each other warily, words failing to fill the chasm between them, despite their united purpose in tracking down Dean.

* * *

The next morning found Sam staring up at the pitted roof of Bobby's guest bedroom, the same room he'd once shared with Dean as kids, baleful at how easily John slept the moment his head touched the pillow. It was another thing Dean shared with their dad: the ability to sleep anywhere, anytime, and under most conditions. Sam, on the other hand, couldn't keep his mind from working overtime, trying to find the angle that would bring his brother's life into focus.

It was disheartening how much he was learning he never knew about Dean, even though he'd lived cheek by jowl with him for the majority of his life; even worse, finding the four years apart hadn't just wrought changes in Sam, but changed the entire landscape of his old world until he believed he would never recognize anything or anyone. Bobby had confessed, out of earshot of John naturally, he and Dean had rekindled a relationship beyond just a working one, and Dean would stay with him anytime he was within spitting distance of a job in South Dakota.

This confession had brought up the same volatile mix of jealousy and possessiveness he'd thought he'd heard in his dad's voice on Halloween. Dean was _his_ brother and _his_ best friend, despite not being on speaking terms for the past two years or so; it was always Dean and Sam, Sammy and D'n, Jerk and Bitch, the Winchester boys, John's sons, them against the world. Even at Stanford, surrounded by kids (and it was hard to think of them as men since they were so soft and innocent) who actually wanted to include Sam Winchester in their activities, the little brother grieving for big brother had locked them out of the small inner circle protecting his heart. It hurt more than he could say to hear Dean had instead _opened_ himself to someone else, let him inside where before it was only Sam and John. And Dean had, because Bobby knew certain stories and nicknames that were private and personal to them alone.

Or so Sam had always thought.

Bobby, of course, had no idea he was poking a very emotionally wounded and indignant bear with a stick, so he continued regaling Sam with tales of what his brother was up to in the last four years, hunts Dean had never told him about when they _were_ still talking. Sam had finally pled exhaustion and escaped to bed, but found no comfort or solace there either. Instead it was the endless mocking silence, the one he'd learned to endure once he left for Stanford. He was an eighteen year old who'd only spent a handful of days – _days –_ sleeping by himself and he didn't know how to adjust to the lack of Dean. While his brother could fall asleep almost instantaneously, he wasn't a restive sleeper, always making noise when he snored, tossing and turning, the beds they'd grown up sleeping on squeaking in protest to his every movement. Even Dad, quieter than Dean, was a physical presence, a barrier between him and the world, and one not quickly forgotten.

Sam had quickly deduced requesting a single dorm was one of the _dumbest_ ideas he'd had, so he tried to change his room, but found there was a process involved, so it was six months before he could get a roommate. His grades never slipped in that period, despite the lack of good sleep, because he spent all his waking moments studying in hopes it would send him to dreamland. The only times he was able to actually close his eyes and rest were the nights he talked to Dean, the sound of his voice a soothing lullaby he'd heard his entire life. And once that disappeared for good, the next best sleep he'd gotten in the years away from his family were spent with Jess after they moved in together; the feel of her lying next to him conjured up the safeness and love he'd always felt whenever he was alongside his brother.

He knew she found his extremely cuddly nature cute, if a bit odd, but it still never prompted him to reveal to her he wasn't used to sleeping alone – it would bring up questions about his _before Stanford time_ he could never satisfactorily answer. How could he explain his family? His formative years?

_My father took my brother and I on a hellish cross-country road trip that lasted our entire lives and I've seen more of back roads America than anyone should ever be subjected to._

_Why? Uh, because he was trying to hunt and kill the supernatural entity that murdered my mother when I was just six months old. And along the way we help people plagued with werewolves, poltergeists, ghosts, and witches._

_Are vampires real? Not that we've found, though Hunter lore does say they did exist at one time but were eradicated generations ago._

_Have I recently been released from a mental institution - why do you ask?_

Yeah, that conversation would've gone over like a ton of bricks.

"Yo, Sammy! Shake a leg, kid. We need to get rolling if we're going to track down that brother of yours."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he muttered, already rolling out of the uncomfortable twin-size bed.

The morning didn't get any better for Sam. Sioux Falls was the largest city in South Dakota, its citizens making up twenty-eight percent of the state's population and boasted both a police force and a sheriff station. The station was in the center of the city's original location before it expanded southward to accommodate its population boom, making it almost completely separate geographically.

John parked the truck and turned to his son with a grimace. Sam wasn't naturally gregarious, but he wasn't usually this quiet.

"We have a problem here, Sammy?"

"It's Sam, not Sammy. Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old boy." The youngest Winchester scrubbed his face a moment, than shook his head. "Just can't stop wondering what's going on with Dean. He's never just picked up and left before." He looked away, pretending fascination for the car next to them, though if anyone asked him the make or model he could only say it was blue.

 _He's never left_ me _behind before._

John sighed deeply, threading his fingers through his hair and tugging slightly. From the time Dean could walk, he was John's shadow, always wanting to do what Daddy did. After Mary's death, the desire to be glued to his side had deepened until John couldn't go to the bathroom without checking in with his oldest. The panic eventually faded, especially when John – in a stroke of brilliance – told Dean he needed to watch over Sammy.

It was said in a moment of frustration when John just needed a breath, a time out from being both mother and father to his half-orphaned boys, a little space to figure out what he should do. No one believed him when he told them what he saw when he ran into the nursery after Mary's first scream of terror. The fire department had ruled it a case of arson and the police were sniffing around, asking insulting questions about the health of his marriage and his sanity. His parents - old even when he was born - were overwhelmed with the unexpected death of their daughter-in-law and the demanding needs of two growing boys, had bluntly told him he was their son and they loved him, but he needed to vacate their guest bedroom as soon as possible.

The draining conversation - so soon after the "friendly chat" with the investigating detective - proved too much when Dean tugged on his pant leg and tried to get his attention. John had screamed at the frightened little boy, telling him to go take care of Sammy and leave his daddy alone.

John often wondered if Dean ever remembered that moment of fatherly frustration because from then on, he stopped talking to his dad and directed all of his attention to his brother. Prior to the fire, Dean had welcomed Sam, had seemed excited about having a sibling, but didn't have the same emotional attachment he developed afterward. His youngest had grown up without a mother's love, but John didn't think he much missed it given how he was the obsession of Dean's eye and was always the first and last thought of his brother's.

"Did you know Dean followed the Greyhound to California and watched over you the first two weeks you were at Stanford?"

Sam snapped his head toward his father in shock. "What?"

John chuckled. "Yeah, blew me off when I tried to get him to go on a hunt, saying getting you settled in was more important." It was one of the few times Dean outright defied him and his passionate defense had humbled John, especially given his own lack of understanding for Sam quitting the family biz.

"He never approached me or told me he was there."

"Why would he? He understood you needed to be independent and thought you might be pissed he came anyway."

Sam bit his lower lip and sucked on the inner skin. He remembered being so lonely and homesick – though maybe _car_ sick would be a better term since the Impala was home since he was a baby – he bitterly regretted his decision to leave. If he'd known Dean was there, he would've packed up and come back with his tail between his legs.

"I wished he told me. I thought he hated me for leaving." _The way you did, Dad._

"Dean?" John sputtered incredulously. "He was frigging bursting with pride that his baby brother got a full ride to Stanford. Said it was about time a Winchester classed up the joint."

"He did?"

John snorted. "He was so proud of you; you'd think _he_ was your daddy."

A weighty silence fell between the two as John's words echoed in the truck's cab.

"Wasn't he."

It wasn't so much a question as a statement.

"Don't you be disrespecting me, boy."

"Did you know my first word was D'n?"

"No it wasn't, it was Da. I was there."

"Actually, no you weren't. We were at Pastor Jim's while you were off on a wild goose chase. I was sitting at the table, looked at Dean and said his name."

John's brow furrowed into a thundercloud. "No, the first time you spoke we were in a motel in Phoenix the time we went there on the Skin walker Hunt."

"That was the first time I spoke around _you_."

"And I'm sure Dean told you this."

"Wrong again, _Dad_. Jim did the last time we saw him. Dean and I were fighting about something stupid -  
"so stupid Sam couldn't even remember now what it was, "-and I stormed off. I went to the church and Jim followed me, determined to calm me down because I'd told Dean I wished I was an only child. He told me that God had a plan for everyone and mine in life was to bear an overprotective sibling who adored me so much he'd cried when my first word was his name."

Sam couldn't believe his _no chick-flick moments_ brother would cry, but he knew the Pastor would never lie, especially in God's house.

"I confronted Dean about it later and he said it was true, but I couldn't tell _you_ because it would hurt your feelings."

For once Dean hadn't cracked a joke or tried to avoid talking about it; instead he grinned and clapped Sam on the shoulder, saying it was one of the proudest moments he'd had, but he'd felt incredibly guilty because it should've been "Da" instead. Now, looking back, Sam wished he'd responded to his brother with heartfelt thanks for all he'd done for him growing up, but he hadn't and now he would have to make the promise to let Dean know in the future how grateful he was for everything.

_I just need to find him first._

"As much fun as this is, Dad, it's getting us frigging nowhere. Can we just please go inside and try to get the information?"

John slammed out of the truck and Sam sighed, wishing he'd bitten his tongue instead of taking his bad mood out on Dad. He knew if Dean were here, he would be pissed at how he used the memory, angry that once again he was in the middle of their fight.

_Sorry D. I promise I'll make it up to you when we see each other again._

* * *

It was going to be a three-cuppa dark Colombian kind of day, she could tell. Jody Mills, Sheriff to her constituents, hung up her coat on the rack and walked into the small dank kitchen near the rear of the station. The century old coffee maker – otherwise known as PITA – was chugging along in all its gas powered glory and she silently sent a ringing Hallelujah upward, singing the praises of her receptionist Ginny Howard.

"Boy howdy, if I weren't a married woman. Rawr!"

Jody turned to Ginny with a raised brow, amusement curving her lips upward. "Does Brody know about your unhealthy fascination with Regis?"

Ginny giggled, a youthful sound coming from the grandmotherly face. "Honey, these boys put ole Regis to shame. The younger one is a cub, but lordy, his daddy." Her liver-spotted hand fanned her face. "And they came to see _you_."

Jody just chuckled, unconvinced at the beauty of her guests. Ginny was nearing seventy and was too vain to wear her glasses because in her younger years she was a crowned Corn Queen of Layton County. The older woman had aged gracefully her dark hair faded to silver, blue eyes still mesmerizing, and skin soft rather than wrinkled, but her appetite for men had remained unabated, making her a _very_ popular woman at the retirement home where her Alzheimer addled husband resided.

A few minutes later, she revised her opinion of Ginny's eyesight as she took in the large men lounging in her office. The older one – clearly father to the other since they resembled each other so closely – had a healthy crop of black hair, a rough five o'clock shadow even though it was nine o'clock, and a well-muscled long rangy body. The vagueness of his brown eyes was telling – she had a daddy and two older brothers in the military and she recognized the thousand yard stare. Her attention switched to the "cub" and saw he had his father's good looks, but a certain softness not present in the older male. He seemed to be ignoring his father by eyeing everything in her office, judging her by the things present.

Jody smirked a little since what was most important to her wasn't evident by the neatly straightened desk or the framed awards on the wall. She was impenetrable and mysterious to those who tried to find her in the details – hidden behind a mask of friendliness and efficiency.

"Sheriff Mills."

His accent was slight - a small drawling of his consonants - but it made her very dusty feminine instincts sit up and notice, despite the wedding ring on _her_ left hand. She stepped through the doorway, a little unnerved by the older male's greeting. She hadn't made a sound, neither man turned to her, yet both were apparently aware of her presence, since his son didn't react to her appearance either.

"Yes?"

At five-eight, she wasn't used to feeling small, but both men were standing and dwarfed her. For the first time in a long while she felt dainty and feminine.

"I'm John Winchester and this is my son Sam. We're friends of Bobby's."

Her uncomfortable preoccupation with his ( _John's_ ) lips – so perfectly formed and bitable – was suddenly broken as Bobby Singer's face flashed before her mind's eye, memory of their last encounter insinuating itself into her consciousness despite her very real attempt to forget everything that occurred.

"So you're crazy like him, huh? You stroll into _my_ station and, and, and…"

John – his lazy grace transformed into lethal motion – grabbed her around the waist and pushed her into her swivel chair behind her old wooden desk, forcing her head between her knees. His large hand spanned her back and rubbed in wide circles, his whiskey rich voice whispering in her ear, "There, there, just breathe darlin'."

Mortification crawled up her neck and settled into her cheeks with a blaze of tomato red. She hadn't been reduced to such panic and stuttering since her ninth grade year when she stood before Grady Haines, long dark hair curling around her finger as she attempted to ask him to be her date to Sadie Hawkins. It hadn't ended well – most of it was a blur, but she still remembered his mocking laughter. The sound ringing in her ear twenty years later enabled her to break free of John and roll back.

"Get out."

"Now ma'am, please. I'm sorry if talking about Bobby brings up bad feelings, but we're trying to find my brother. Please. You are our only hope."

Staring up at the son – Sam? – she was besieged with an absurd desire to laugh. His floppy brown hair fell into his eyes and he wrung his hands like a nervous virgin.

"Shouldn't you preface that with Obi Won Kenobi?"

"Huh?" Even his bewilderment was adorable.

"'Obi Won Kenobi, you're our only hope." Princess Leia?"

She gently jogged his pop culture muscle but his expression didn't change. Sighing, she shook her head in wonder; he was young, a few years into his second decade at most, and he didn't know a _Star Wars_ reference. God she felt old sometimes.

"Ma'am, please, I need your help. My brother Dean went missing about six weeks ago and we need to find him."

The plea for help centered the wildly spinning world, resolving it to the simple demand for attention. The cop in her immediately came to the fore, pushing aside her demons for the moment, and focusing her on the puppy-eyed young man before her. He worked those hazel blue eyes like a seasoned pro and even though she knew what he was doing, she could still feel his power working.

"Have you filed a missing person's report?"

John interjected, having watched the byplay between Sam and the Sheriff. "No, we don't think he was kidnapped or anything like that. Sometimes he falls off the grid, which is what we thought this was, but he hasn't been in contact with _anyone_ in almost two months. That isn't like Dean."

"A friend" – she didn't miss the fleeting eye contact between the two men – "told us my brother had a lo-jack system installed in his car and we were hoping you could look it up for us."

"We have a protocol to follow and you need to officially reporting him as missing."

She was fascinated by the sudden lack of expression on both their faces. It was strange: almost like watching a slate being washed clean, their emotions seen one moment and then gone the next as if by magic.

Given her overreaction to Bobby's name, John didn't really want to invoke the _promise_ , but there was no way he would set a chain reaction by putting Dean into a police database in anyway. Silently he cursed his missing son for putting him into this untenable situation. He should've ignored Bobby and Sam, and just broke into the station to get the information as he originally planned.

"Ma'am, Dean is my only brother and I just gotta find him. I know you have hoops you gotta go through, but could you please just overlook it this time?"

" _If_ I do this for you, will you do two things for me?"

"Anything! Whatever you ask."

"Tell Bobby Singer this clears the debt between us and you'll never darken my door again."

Sam could see the despair barely hiding behind the very real anger in her eyes and wondered how the supernatural world had touched her life; in his experience, her story could've only ended bloody or deadly. Or both.

"Done," John asserted, reminding the two of his presence in the same room.

Jody nodded jerkily, closing her eyes for a moment so she could get a hold of herself. It was strange how these men showed up and all her hard-won composure went out the window. After a few deep calming breaths, she stood up and motioned for them to follow her. Once she was seated in front of the computer, she brought up the Lo-jack website and asked for Dean's information. Sam was focused on the screen, so he barely heard a cell phone ringing or noticed his father stepping outside to take the call; Dean was finally within reach.

Just a few more keystrokes and then – "Battle Creek, Michigan? What the hell is Dean doing up there?"

Jody eyed the young man over her shoulder and nearly chuckled at his (now familiar) puzzled expression. He seemed equipped with only two emotions: bewilderment and pleading. It was obvious he was the baby of the family.

"Sam, we need to roll."

"Dad, I know where Dean is."

The two men spoke at the same time, John with authority and Sam with excitement.

"Uh, that's good son. Caleb just called and –"

"No."

Suddenly the "baby of the family" was a lot more dangerous looking than Jody suspected he could be. He straightened to his full height, an inch taller than his daddy, large hands curled into fists at his sides, face furrowed into a deep thunderous scowl.

"You _will not_ follow whatever bogus lead you got. We're going to Michigan and –"

"This is _the_ lead we've been waiting for –"

"There's nothing more important than Dean!"

"Your mother-"

"She'll still be dead even after you tracked him down, Dad. She's dead and she isn't coming back!"

The fist should've plowed into Sam's face but he suddenly wasn't there, dodging his father's swing and following up with an undercut to John's abdomen. The older man woofed as the air cut out, but he kept on his feet and head-butted Sam's chest, knocking him back a few steps into the opposite desk. John stalked forward, but immediately stopped when Jody unsnapped the clasp on her holster.

"I don't know what the hell is going on and I really don't care, but I _will_ arrest the two of you."

Both were startled, suddenly aware they were airing out their dirty laundry before strangers, Ginny gaping from the doorway and Jody with a hand on the gun on her hip. Complicated feelings arced between them as their eyes met before they nodded.

"Sorry Sheriff, thanks for your help."

Sam no longer looked adorable and John's beauty had faded beneath the weight of his anger; all she wanted was for the Winchesters to leave and never come back. It was a familiar sentiment shared by mortals and monsters alike, so they weren't surprised to find themselves unceremoniously shown the door with a "don't come back now, ya 'hear" as it locked behind them.

* * *

Bobby didn't look up from his research as a truck pulled back in; its engine was almost as recognizable as the Impala, so he knew it was the Winchesters back from their little escapade in town. He didn't have to ask if they'd gotten what they wanted because Sheriff Mills had called and read him the riot act about letting them loose on polite society. She'd also made it _very_ clear she thought the debt between them was more than paid and the next time she saw him it would be with a warrant in hand to arrest his sorry ass.

The footsteps pounding across his porch were angry and heavy foretelling the issues between the Winchester men wasn't resolved just yet.

"Balls," he muttered, slamming the book shut and waiting for them.

"You are the most selfish bastard walking this earth."

"That's rich, coming from you! You left this family behind without a second glance and now you suddenly want to be a part of us again?"

" _You're_ the one who came and got me to find him. Now I've found him and you want to take off! Funny, how fast it was done once I start helping; almost like you didn't really care where he was or not."

"Caleb found information that could finally lead me to _the_ demon! I can't walk away from this."

"Do you know how many times I've heard you say that in my life? Do you know how many times those hunts turned out to be nothing? Screw finding the demon. We have a chance to get Dean back and find out what the hell is going on with him."

"Screw the demon? Screw the demon? You're spitting on your mama's grave when you say that! There is _nothing_ more important than getting her killer. How dare you say that to me, boy."

"She didn't have a grave, Dad. She was cremated so it's kind of hard to do that, doncha think?"

Bobby winced at the verbal low blow, unsurprised when it was followed by a physical one. He stormed to the door and wrenched it open just as John hauled back to hit Sam again.

"Walk away John. Right now or you'll be pullin' buckshot out of your behind."

The two remaining Winchesters were nearly eye to eye, crimson dripping down their faces, proof this wasn't the first blow taken and received. John eased back first, a silent snarl stretching his mouth grotesquely before he spit a glob of blood to the ground.

"You can do whatever the hell you want, you always do Sam. I know why Dean's up in Michigan and I know he'll be there a while, so I'm goin' to Caleb's for this hunt." John turned to Bobby, his left eye swelled shut, "There are some leads I'm running down. When Dean comes back, let him know my new number so he can join me."

Sam and Bobby watched as John walked away.

"You know, that's the thing I remember most about my dad growing up: seeing the back of him as he walked away."

Both steadfastly ignored the fading echoes of the large black truck as it rolled out of sight.

"Boy, what the hell did you two do at the Sheriff's station?"

Sam's hazel eyes swung towards him, a light flush staining his cheekbones. "Sorry about that. Uh, she helped on the condition you clear the red in the ledger concerning her and uh, we never show up at her place again." He scuffed the toe of his worn boots against a loose board. "So, you think I can borrow a car? The Impala is in Michigan."

One part of Bobby wanted to ask more about what prompted the battle royale, but the saner part of him knew not to get caught up in the middle of a Winchester smack down, so he merely grunted affirmation before stalking across the scrap metal yard towards the section where he kept the cars that still ran.

"Yeah, but I expect her back in one piece."

* * *

Despite the dubious looking rusted hulk of the car's exterior, the engine purred like a kitten beneath the hood, and Sam was able to get onto the road. He'd mapped the exact route between his location and Dean, figuring it would take roughly seventeen hours to get there if he didn't stop to rest. Even though he was running on two days without sleep, he had no desire to find a motel because he knew he'd just brood over the fight with John.

The angry words they hurled at each other weren't new; in fact, this wasn't even the first time they'd exchanged punches. It was, however, the first time Dean wasn't there to act as a buffer, and Sam hadn't truly understood his brother's position until he'd spent two weeks alone with their dad. He knew John loved them, just as he returned it, but he didn't much like him. The driving obsession to find his wife's killer had enabled John to willingly sacrifice his humanity, his sons' childhoods, and any meaningful relationship upon the altar of his vengeance.

Was it any wonder Dean had faltered, left their father and tried to pave his own way? Sam couldn't help but think his brother had seen something in John the last major case they worked together that spooked him; Dad's reluctance to speak of what exactly went down during the demon hunt on which Bill Harvelle died told Sam it was important. All the answers to solve the Missing Winchester case would be tied to that particular event.

He wondered if John had realized the significance of whatever happened that day – and if so, why did he need Sam to join the hunt for Dean? It was this essential question combined with the need to decipher John's cryptic response "I know why Dean's up in Michigan," that kept Sam's foot to the pedal.

What was so damn important about Michigan?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this story was supposed to be a one-shot, but there seemed something unfinished about it, so I decided to continue the Winchesters' quest for their missing third. I know the show's dynamics were always about the boys, but their relationships to other people helped define their characters and provided a more in-depth understanding of what made them tick, so once again I'm including various points of view. I'm not sure how long this ride will be, so I hope you'll enjoy it as long as it lasts.
> 
> Episodes: Vaguely season one, lightly salted with two through four, and maybe a pinch of season five, six, and possibly seven – essentially whatever my wickedly minded Muse decides is appropriate.
> 
> Inspiration: "Breakeven (Falling to Pieces)" by The Script


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam finds things aren't as they seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is short, but it's something I salvaged from the original chapter I wrote and lost.

The Impala was for sale.

Sam leaned heavily against his borrowed car and fought his gorge from rising. He couldn't puke here, couldn't lose control right now.

It had taken Sam ten hours to get to Battlecreek from Bobby's, his foot pressed to the floor as he rolled across highways and byways for seven hundred plus miles; he didn't dare stop because an ominous feeling pressed behind his breastbone that spoke of Sam's greatest fear. He would be too late and Dean would be gone.

Not gone like years past when Dean would leave for a hunt, a bar, a girl, but gone like Mom. A vague shape outlined by loss and raging grief. No, Sam never had known the flesh and blood woman who'd given birth; instead, he'd held the hand of an older brother who never let go.

It was Sam who'd let go, toddled away from a hovering Dean, eyes, legs, and heart towards the distant horizon. Well, that distant horizon now taunted him as he realized that for all the silences of the last two years, Sam had never truly thought Dean would leave him behind. Content in the knowledge he was first and foremost in his brother's heart, Sam knew if he picked up the phone, Dean would always answer. Maybe not right away, but eventually.

Except this time he hadn't. The silence burned down the lines, leading Sam to this exact moment in time where his illusions were stripped away by the soap script desecrating the Impala's back window with an offer to sell.

The long sleek car looked out of place parked in the driveway of a small house with a goddamn white picket fence. The neighborhood was a cliche straight from Norman Rockwell paintings and the Impala stuck out like a sore thumb; a caged beast pacing behind its bars.

The address hadn't immediately struck Sam as strange, if only because even the wandering Winchesters sometimes needed a home base for hunts, but seeing the detritus of a so-called "apple-pie" life - a lawn mower propped against the garage and some toys scattered across the neatly trimmed lawn - pinged in Sam's consciousness. Dean was suspicious of Middle America, openly scoffed at the values and beliefs of the norms who didn't know what hid in the shadows. The Winchester boys were true vagabonds, he'd always boasted, and the only home they needed had four wheels and a midnight black roof.

Well, their home was for sale and Sam could only conclude his brother was dead. The minute their father flipped the keys to him, on Dean's sixteenth birthday, he'd babied and loved the car nearly as much as he had his younger brother. It - even now Sam couldn't refer to the Impala as "she" - was the only thing Dean owned outright and he jealously guarded it with the ferocity of a feral dog.

Sam drew in a deep shaky breath and creakily adjusted himself to his full height. He was creased and worn like a cheap suit, but he couldn't be bothered to try and slip into a new identity. While he did have a moral objection to the seedier side of a hunter's life, in this case Sam was too heartsick to even try. he would find out what happened to Dean and then take the Impala back. There was no way he'd let it languish in this suburbia hell.

Just as Sam had focused himself enough to talk to the house's owner, an older model Ford came rattling down the tree-lined street, country music blaring through rolled down windows. Sam wrinkled his nose a little at the sound, and stopped in surprise when the rust red truck rolled to a stop at the curb across from where Sam was parked.

The rattle of the closing door seemed overly loud to Sam as he stared at the man stepping from the truck. The military short golden hair, broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist, and bowed legs were as familiar to him as his own lean rangy body.

"Dean." A whisper. "Dean." A demand. "Dean." A shout.

The man stopped and turned to Sam, his eyes squinting against the bright afternoon sun.

"Yeah?"

Sam's face felt cracked as his cheeks bulged around his impossibly wide grin. His jerk of a brother stood a few yards away and Sam's arms itched to stretch around his shoulders. Long before he'd left for Stanford, he'd banned Dean from touching him, hating how useless and young his brother could make him feel with just one crushing hug or noogie to the head. Despite outgrowing Dean by the time Sam turned fifteen, his growth hadn't come with the pounds of muscle or memory to use them, and he rarely out wrestled his older brother.

Now, his whole body tingled at the thought of Dean wrapping himself around Sam like a snake, and he eagerly approached the older man.

"Man, I'm so glad to see you! I came a damn long way to find you. Why the hell didn't you answer your phone when I called?"

Dean's face wrinkled in thought before a polite smile broke through his bewilderment.

"Oh, sorry man. I forgot my cell this morning. You could've called the house phone though and left a message. I'm sorry if you came all this way for the Impala. Did you wait long?"'

Sam slowed. Stopped a few feet away. Stared.

This was Dean, no doubt in Sam's mind. He recognized the slight cant of his nose from the time he got slammed into the wall during a werewolf hunt and broke it. The faint scar bisecting Dean's left eyebrow was from an attempt to impress a girl by climbing a tree, only to have the branch break beneath him and his forehead sliced open.

Yet his eyes.

His changeable green eyes.

Sam recognized Dean.

But _Dean_ didn't recognize Sam.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started as a one-shot, but something about it called to me and I knew I had to write more. Though nominally the pilot, it also mixes up information we learn later in the season(s).This was something that just came to me – it's a blending of AU and canon. I also use other characters and case details with a twist just because I can and it amuses me. I suck at creating titles so I ripped from the lyrics to "Count On Me" by Default. 
> 
> Musical inspiration: "Heaven" and "Changes" by 3 Doors Down (listen to the songs and tell me they don't sound like something Sam or Dean would think)


End file.
